Two brothers and a church enclave in the suburbs of Caen in Calvados, Normandy on a Sunday morning in November

There is this startling juxtapostion in France, and Europe in general for that matter, where the crass, visually aggressive and tasteless stands nearby or even side-by-side with the ancient — the tenderly worn facades and established gardens of the past.

This takes some getting used to. That is, if one adores the world of the past, and the stones, buildings and plants that have been passed on to us from that past, like a hand bearing gifts stretching over centuries.

The way I figure it is, we should be happy with what remains, and there is so VERY much of it, instead of bemoaning the often-encountered, ill thought-out new construction that ruins a vista forever.

This diminutive church, while not that old (between the wars), is its own discreet enclave in a sprawling suburbia, the encroaching Caen, with its box stores and ugly apartment houses on its burgeoning outskirts.

But you see, it is THIS ENCLAVE that matters. Not what lies just across the hill. Because in this petite enclave two boys have grown up, and are growing up, and they have peace here, and they have played on its lawn, and in its tiny wood, and they have taken communion here many, many times, and this always brings them together, close, real tight, as tight as can be.